Harry Potter and the Pewter Owl
by the mystery tramp
Summary: After the events of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, a mysterious object comes into Harry's possession. Where did it come from, and what is its purpose? Are there more like it? Why is Harry seeing fireflies? And what does it all have to do with Ginny?
1. Fireflies at Twilight

HARRY POTTER  
_and the_  
PEWTER OWL

an alternate fifth year  
by the mystery tramp

Chapter One  
Fireflies at Twilight

It was July the Twenty-Ninth—a beautiful summer's day in Little Whinging, with a sky so flawlessly blue that even Petunia Dursley approved. There was not a single smudgy cloud to desecrate the perfection (and to cause Mrs. Dursley to wish in futility that her featherduster was more effective with clouds). In fact, the day looked so _very_ pristine that it appeared almost false—the smiles in a feuding family's portrait—a living room tidied up for company.

In the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive, Harry Potter lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had been in this position since waking up that morning—and, indeed, since going to bed the night before. In fact, Harry had spent the vast majority of his summer in this sloth-like fashion, ever since he had returned to Privet Drive from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, at the end of June.

He had scarcely spoken to his aunt or uncle since he'd arrived—which, incidentally, did not go unappreciated. Harry's silence, however, resulted not from a long-buried longing to please the Dursleys, but from the events of the night of the Third Task—the night Lord Voldemort returned—the night Cedric Diggory was killed before Harry's eyes.

_We'll take it at the same time... we both got here... let's just take it together..._

The events would replay themselves so often in Harry's mind that Harry almost felt like Dudley's CD player, which (despite its owners extensive and expensive disc collection) tended to scream a single rap song at the top of its speakers over and over, all day long. It would have driven Harry mad, if he hadn't already had plenty to be driven mad about, thank-you-very-much.

"_Yo yo yo_," shouted the stereo from the next room. "_I'm gonna flip you like a coin, I'm gonna bounce you with a BOING!_"

Harry grabbed a pillow from behind him and held it around his head. He could still hear the song, but it was somewhat muffled:

"_I'm a muffle muffle POET, when you gonna muffle KNOW IT?_"

Harry kept the pillow over his face for as long as he could stand—but it was a hot, muggy July day, so he could not stand it very long.

He threw the pillow to the side, and it landed rather heavily upon the bedroom floor. Harry wanted to yell at Dudley, but he couldn't muster up the energy. He'd been sort of limp and lifeless for weeks, and the hot weather was not helping. The only thing that could provoke an enthusiastic response from him these days was an owl at his window, bearing a letter from one of his two best friends, Ron and Hermione, or from his godfather, Sirius Black. Normally he'd also receive hastily scribbled notes from Hagrid as well, but this summer he was on top-secret business for Professor Dumbledore.

His last letter from Ron was still lying on top of his bedside table, and Harry stretched out now to take it, to read it again, but it was just out of reach. He sighed, and let his arm fall to the bed once again. It didn't matter, anyway—he'd read the letter thousand times, already—he knew it by heart.

_ Dear Harry —_

_ Dad says we can come get you on the 30th, so you'll be able to have a proper party for once this year. Mum's gonna be making the biggest cake of her life, which is saying something. Hermione's coming too, in a couple days. You're gonna have a load of presents. Fred and George said that they were getting you something special, so you'd best watch out, though. I'm not sure how we'll be coming to get you. Dad says it's best to keep it a secret anyway. So be on the lookout, I guess._

_ Hope the Dursleys aren't being too awful,_

—_Ron_

_ P.S.: Ginny says hi._

_ P.P.S.: Actually she said "Who are you writing to?" and I said you, and she got all red in the face and ears and I was going to make a joke about it in the P.S. but she saw me write "Ginny" and made me write "says hi" instead of "is still pathetically in love with you." Dunno why... crap she's coming back, gotta go._

The last few words were even more hastily scribbled and verging-upon-unreadable than the rest of Ron's handwriting, and they always made Harry chuckle.

_One more day... _thought Harry. _Just one more day._

There was a harsh knock on his door.

"Potter!" It was his Uncle Vernon.

"Yes?" Harry said, his voice somewhat crackly from lack of use.

"Open the door, Potter."

Harry sighed, and for the first time all day, stood up from his bed. His back was sort of achy, but nothing too notable—he'd endured much worse, after all. Once you'd felt the Cruciatus Curse, everything else seemed a bit pathetic, so you'd almost want to say, _Nice try, backache, but no cigar. _An image popped into his head of a person's back attempting to smoke a cigar. He shook his head, and opened his bedroom door.

"Yes?"

Vernon's face appeared not angry, but suspicious (which was his second favorite expression). He peered at Harry through extra-beady eyes, sized him up, and finally spoke:

"So you're alive, then, boy?"

Harry blinked.

"Er, yes—I'm alive."

Vernon nodded, and spoke briskly, almost businesslike: "Petunia told me to check on you. You've been... _suspiciously absent_ lately, she said. I haven't noticed myself, of course, I've got more important things to worry about when I'm home, but—" and here he poked his head in through the doorway to survey Harry's bedroom "—your aunt was worried you might been ruining the rug, decaying all over the place and such."

Harry didn't respond to this, and Vernon looked him over once again, and smiled his very Dursley smile.

"Why so _glum_, hmm?"

Harry stepped back and swung the door shut—not quite a slam, not wanting to provoke Vernon's temper, but still somewhat forceful.

Instead of going back to his bed, Harry began to collect some of his things together—his letters, mostly, for he hadn't really made much of a mess over the few weeks he'd been home—and put them into his trunk. He picked his pillow up off the floor and threw it back on the bed, and he took the chair from his desk and put it under the window. He felt like looking outside.

The afternoon went by slowly, slowly, slowly like an old cat, lazing about on a sun-warmed porch, moves from one spot to another to stay in the sunshine. Harry wanted nothing more than for the day to pass, so that tomorrow could come and he would be at the Burrow with the Weasleys—but time did not want to appease him. Even as it became evening, the sky stayed bright, for it was still the height of summer.

Privet Drive was as exciting as it ever was, that day—every once in awhile, a sprinkler down the road would turn on and start to spin, shooting water out in a circle for a while before falling back into idleness once more. Still, Harry watched the sky, as it rebelliously stayed blue even after eight o'clock—eight-fifteen—half-nine.

He wondered how the Weasleys would be coming to get him tomorrow. Surely they wouldn't attempt the Floo Network again? Not after last year's incident, which would have left the Dudley's tongue several feet longer than any tongue was supposed to be, if Mr. Weasley hadn't been able to return it to normal.

Perhaps they would use a Portkey this year.

_...let's just take it together..._

Harry's train of thought had turned back onto its most familiar and rickety old track—the night of the Third Task. It clanked along past all the usual stops—the graveyard—Cedric—Voldemort—fireflies—

_Fireflies?_

Harry blinked, and realized that the fireflies were not in his thoughts at all, but just outside his window. They were glowing brightly against the twilight—Harry supposed the sun had finally set without his realizing it, when he was lost in his thoughts.

The fireflies were dancing. Harry couldn't help thinking how beautiful they looked. Before he knew what he was doing, he had stood, and was throwing his window open to let them inside—but as soon as he opened it, they were gone, as suddenly as they had come.

Harry wondered where they had come from. He had never seen fireflies on Privet Drive before.

Sleep came easily when Harry finally went back to his bed—and for once, he did not dream of a tall figure emerging from a bubbling cauldron—or of the life disappearing from a young man's eyes. Instead, he dreamt of fireflies, dancing in the air—just dancing a strange, beautiful dance that was as calming as anything Harry had ever seen, ever felt. It was the best dream Harry had had in ages, but when he woke in the morning, he could scarcely remember it at all.


	2. A Little Bit of Hard Work

HARRY POTTER_  
and the_  
PEWTER OWL

an alternate fifth year  
by the mystery tramp

Chapter Two  
A Little Bit of Hard Work

The previous day's too-blue sky had been replaced by the sort of gray that felt heavy — felt as though your clothes had already been soaked through before the first drop of rain fell.

When Harry awoke in the morning, he knew — just _knew_, that very instant he was aware of his wakefulness, he knew it — that today was special, for some reason. His first thought was that it was his birthday, but no, that wasn't until tomorrow — what was it?

He reached out for his glasses, and his hand fell upon Ron's letter. He grinned a sleepy sort of grin.

Today was the day.

He let out a breath, deep and heavy — partly with relief and partly with plain old heaviness — and put the glasses on. He blinked a few times — they were sort of foggy. Perhaps he had fallen asleep in them by accident and they'd rubbed against the pillow? He couldn't remember. He fogged them up with his breath, now, and wiped them with his t-shirt — and, eventually, made his way out of bed.

He glanced out the window — he vaguely recalled there being something interesting about it, for some reason, and sort of waited a few moments for something to strike him now. But there was nothing — just a bleary, gray sort of sky and all the normal houses —all of which was decidedly more extra-ordinary than it was extraordinary. But then, wasn't that how it always was, on Privet Drive? He didn't know why he expected something different, today. He shrugged off the feeling, but it wouldn't quite go.

Instead, he went: to the door, out the door — down the hall, down the stairs.

The Dursleys were gathered around the kitchen table, like they always were — Aunt Petunia sipping her tea in perfectly measured sips — Uncle Vernon reading the paper, grumbling to himself approximately every three lines — Dudley shoving an enormous omelet down his throat, one giant fork-load at a time. None of them noticed Harry come into the kitchen.

"I'm leaving today," he said. Petunia's tea sputtered slightly in her hand, Vernon grumbled out of time, and they all looked up.

"What did you say, boy?" Vernon said.

"I said, I'm leaving today."

Vernon swallowed, breathed in sharply through his mustache-blocked nostrils, and opened and closed his mouth a few times — _open, closed, open,_ wordless — and then:

"They bloody well better not think they're coming through my fireplace again —"

"I'm sure they've thought up something new," said Harry, trying to sound mysterious.

Vernon bristled, flared his nostrils again, and said:

"Well."

A few moments of silence, and then Harry said:

"I figured I'd let you know, you know?" he said. "Seemed like the polite thing to do."

"Polite, eh?" said Uncle Vernon, beady-eyed as ever and being disagreeable for the sake of it — today was his last chance, for a whole year, after all. "You didn't seem to mind about being _polite _when you slammed your bedroom door in my face yesterday—"

"I didn't slam it," said Harry — not angry, more like pointing it out. "I just closed it."

"Yes, well," began Vernon, somewhat taken aback by the calm reply, "don't think I appreciate it."

"I didn't, really," said Harry.

This conversation — if it could really be called a proper conversation — was going absolutely nowhere, not that Harry had honestly expected anything else. It was sort of depressing, if Harry were to be honest, although he couldn't put a finger on why, exactly.

He glanced out the window — the skies were looking more formidable than ever. He hoped he wouldn't be flying to the Burrow, today.

Aunt Petunia followed his gaze, perhaps worried that he had spotted some nosy neighbor poking their head in the kitchen window or something of that sort — but then, for the first time this morning, she spoke:

"Vernon, aren't there a good deal of _chores_ the boy has been _neglecting_ to do, coping himself up in that room of his, as it were?"

Harry blinked — he didn't like the sound of that. Of course, he had never particularly enjoyed the sound of his aunt's voice, or the Dursleys' habit to speak of him as though he weren't there — _the boy, that rotten nephew, _et cetera — but that was beside the point.

Vernon began to smile his very Dursleyish smile, and his eyes lit up in their very Dursleyish way.

"Why, you're absolutely right, Petunia," he said, folding over his newspaper and rubbing his fat hands together excitedly. "I should say, he shouldn't be allowed to go off and frolic with his lot until he's kept up his part around here, don't you agree?"

"I agree!" squealed Dudley — and, as though reacting to his horrible voice, the clouds opened up at that very moment, and rain began to plod down upon the house with an almost alarming intensity. Surprisingly quick to realize what had happened, Dudley appended: "Make him do something out in the rain!"

By now, Harry was very much regretting ever telling the Dursleys that he would be leaving — why couldn't he have just waited in his room, stayed on his bed like he had the rest of the summer? Why had he ever bothered with being _polite _to the _Dursleys?_

What on earth had he been thinking?

Now, as the three of them (or rather, the two of them, with occasional interjections from Dudley) plotted out a list of chores for Harry to complete before he would be allowed to leave, Harry began to feel an overwhelming weight on his shoulders — began to feel like today would never pass, that the Weasleys would never arrive, that he would never be rid of his terrible relatives. He felt as though this one day would surely take as long as his first ten years with the Dursleys had, however ridiculous that would have sounded.

If only the Weasleys would hurry up and arrive, right this minute — surely the Dursleys would never stand up to a group of Wizards and insist Harry need finish his chores? If only they would arrive, Harry would be free.

Time moved terribly slowly, however, just as Harry had known it would — and before long, the list had been compiled, and Harry was forced to begin work.

The Dursleys had not started off lightly: the first task (Harry groaned inwardly) was to clear out all the gutters of Number Four.

This seemed to be an unusually cruel sort of job, even for the Dursleys to assign, as Harry was sure nobody in their right mind had ever before put the clearing of gutters off until the middle of a rainstorm. It was as though they had specificallysaved the job for the inevitable day that he would be leaving — but then, that couldn't have been true, could it? And they couldn't have known about the rain, after all.

Trudging out through the already muddy backyard, Harry awkwardly retrieved the ladder from behind the Dursleys' shed, dragged it around the house to the front, and propped it up against the house. He could barely breathe in without worrying he would drown.

Certainly, this was a new low.

Harry wondered, as he began to dig all the sopping leaves and other sort of muck out of the gutter, why there _were _so many leaves in there in the first place. How long did his aunt allow them to build up? The job was usually Vernon's, but Harry would have assumed she would force him up the ladder to clear them out every week or so.

Clearly, she hadn't. And as such, the job never seemed to end. Up the ladder, clear the gutter, down the ladder, _move _the ladder — up, clear, down, move, up, clear, down, move, up clear down move, upcleardownmove, _upcleardownmove, UPCLEARDOWNMOVE_ — it just went on and on.

Harry was growing more tempted by the moment to use magic to speed up the process — it would only take a second, after all, one simple spell and he'd be done with the whole job — but every time he had almost persuaded himself to do it, he thought of Dobby the House Elf, who had gotten Harry a letter of warning from the Improper Use of Magic Office, three summers previous. Harry had not actually performed any magic _himself_, but the Ministry hadn't seemed to care very much about that — and besides, the next year, Harry inflated his uncle's sister, Marge, without any help from Dobby. The Ministry had overlooked that particular offence, but surely another one would be taken more seriously?

And so, Harry continued working, and working, and working. Every once in a while, the rain would let up slightly, and Harry would rest a minute, lean up against the ladder and just breathe — but then, he would start to feel how very soaked he was, and how enormously heavy it made him, and for a split second he would think he was about to fall — but he would steady himself, and inevitably, that would be the cue for the rain to pick up once again. He didn't know how much more he could take.

Where on earth were the Weasleys, anyway?

Part of him was worried that they had already attempted to contact him, somehow, and he had missed it — that they had Portkeyed into his bedroom, found him missing, and left without him, or something to that effect. He knew he was being ridiculous, but honestly — the day must've been getting on, it must've been mid-afternoon by now at least — surely they'd be arriving sometime soon?

Harry decided to take a break from the gutters, regardless of what the Dursleys would say — he climbed down the ladder, feeling very dramatic and conclusive about it, knowing that this time he wouldn't be heading right back up it again. He headed to the door, remembered at the last moment to remove his muddy trainers, and stepped inside.

There was a shriek.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING DRAGGING THAT FILTH INTO MY HOUSE?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't planned on saying anything to anyone — he'd just wanted to let his anger silently boil beneath his skin as he thought up fantastic plans for revenge that he would never enact — but he found he couldn't help but respond:

"What did you expect me to do, strip on the back porch—?"

"Heavens no, the neighbors!" exclaimed Petunia, clearly misinterpreting his tone, and rushing to a window. When she was satisfied that the neighbors hadn't seen her nephew as he _hadn't _stripped on the back porch, Petunia turned back to Harry:

"So you've finally finished, have you?"

And he didn't know what made him do it — perhaps the ridiculous thought of his aunt going up on the ladder in the rain to check? — but Harry found himself saying: "Yes, Aunt Petunia," despite his not having come anywhere close to completing the job. Maybe it was the way she'd phrased the question — indeed, he realized, he _was_ finished_, _whether or not he _had_ finished. Dumbledore himself probably couldn't have gotten him back up that ladder — not that Dumbledore would have made him.

"It's about time," said Petunia, staring down his drenched clothing as though she could dry it with her stare. "Now, what on earth are we going to do about those _clothes_?"

The way she said it, _clothes _sounded like the most despicable swearword ever devised.

"Don't take another step," she said, just as he was about to take another step. She began to mumble hysterically to herself: "You've already done enough damage to the rug—oh dear, oh dear, why on _earth_ did I let Vernon give you the gutters? I should have _known _this would happen — _I _wanted you to scrub out the loo, but _no_, he can't do his ONE BLOODY CHORE —" this last part she shouted for Vernon's benefit, wherever he was "— so he pawns it off on _you_ and ruins my living room in the process! I don't know how I haven't killed the arsehole yet —"

She had reverted back to hysterical mumbles, clearly not fully realizing that Harry could hear what she was saying. Harry sort of just stood stock still, caught off-guard by her frankness, and awaiting further instructions.

"Erm, Aunt Petunia?"

"—_WHAT?_" she said, jolting even herself with her volume. Then, softer: "What?"

"What should I do?"

"Oh dear, oh dear," she repeated, crossing one arm across her chest and biting the fingernails on the opposite hand. "I can't believe it's come to this..."

And the next thing Harry knew, she had disappeared off into the hall — then he heard her stomping up the stairs — and before he could even venture a guess as to her objective, she was stomping back _down _the stairs, and in another moment, she had returned.

Harry blinked.

She was holding his Firebolt — _gripping_ his Firebolt, more like, so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. She looked about to collapse from a nervous breakdown.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked. "Why do you have my —"

"The only way," murmured Petunia, holding the broomstick out in both hands, but still gripping so tightly it was clear she wasn't ready to hand it over. "If you get one _drip _on _anything, _I swear I will never let you in this house again," she said.

"Wait, so you — you want me to fly out of here?"

"Straight to your bedroom, no detours, no fancy tricks, no funny business, and you will never repeat a word of this to anyone, you understand?"

Harry nodded, completely lost for words.

Finally relaxing her fingers, Petunia held the broom out towards him:

"Not one drip," she said, and he nodded again.

Harry mounted his broomstick, for the first time in months, and hesitated for a moment — glanced at his aunt one last time, to make certain she wasn't going to shoot him or something — and took off.

It was by far the most surreal experience of his life — zooming on his Firebolt, as carefully as he could, around the rooms of the most un-magical house in the world. Across the living room, down the hall, past his old cupboard, up the stairs, and into his bedroom — the door to which Petunia had thankfully left open when she'd retrieved his broomstick.

He dismounted, and wondered, _Did that really just happen? _Within five minutes or so, he had just about convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing — and yet, his clothes were still sopping wet — so, perhaps, maybe it had been real?

He stripped out of his clothes, left them in a clumpy pile by the doorway, and put on new ones — feeling unbelievably fresh and light as he did so. Grateful that he seemed to have somehow managed to get out of doing the rest of his chores, he laid down upon his bed, to wait for the Weasleys to arrive.

He would be waiting a long time.


	3. A Midsummer Nightmare

HARRY POTTER  
_and the  
_PEWTER OWL

an alternate fifth year  
by the mystery tramp

Chapter Three  
A Midsummer Nightmare

Slowly, slowly, the stormy gray sky fell behind an inky blue-blackness outside Harry's window, out over the houses of Privet Drive — slowly, slowly, Harry felt the lump in his stomach grow, tighten, move up into his throat — slowly, slowly, he began to realize that there was something wrong.

Harry lay on his bed, waiting, waiting, listening to the rain as it fell, steady on the roof above, harsh against the windowpane — a thousand tiny tick-tocks as the day drifted further and further away without word from the Weasleys.

Ron had said they would be coming to get him on the Thirtieth. A glance at the clock on his bedside table told Harry it was almost midnight, now — almost the Thirty-First, almost his birthday. It wasn't like the Weasleys to just _not show up_ —What could be going on? What could be keeping them?

A most unwelcome thought floated, unbidden, into Harry's mind.

Surely — _surely_ it wasn't —

But Harry could not help it now — could not help but think the worst, could not help but see it in his mind's eye: the Dark Mark hanging high over the Burrow, shimmering against the night sky, terrifically terrible screams tearing out from inside the house — Mrs. Weasley — the twins — Ginny — _Ron_...

The more he thought it, the clearer he could see it — the very outline of the Mark, so vivid, so real — the light of its emerald stars glistening through the raindrops, reflecting and refracting in a thousand different directions.

It would have been beautiful, if it weren't so terrifying.

And Harry was running, now, running towards the Burrow through the slanting rain, running towards the Mark, running towards the screams — he ran, and ran, and —

A bolt of lightning — almost lazy, almost slow — almost _doodled _its way from the sky, sketching down the blackness and striking the Burrow with a grim sort of finality.

A second later, the thunder burst into Harry's ears — almost an afterthought — and Harry felt a sizzling pain in his forehead, as though the sound had just been too much, just too much, and his head was going to split. He fell to the ground.

He gasped, gasped, and caught his breath — and looked up.

The Burrow was on fire.

The flames curled upward, strong and defiant against the downpour. The greenish world was suddenly golden, as the light of the blaze overtook that of the Mark.

Harry couldn't move — motionless on the wet grass, stuck in the almost-mud — and then he was shaking, shaking, like an arm on his shoulder was jostling him awake, violent, urgent —

"Harry, Harry, wake up!"

Harry's eyes snapped open — it was cold, he was freezing, he was covered in sweat.

When had he fallen asleep?

More important, perhaps — who was standing above his bed?

In a panic, Harry scrambled for his glasses and his wand on the bedside table — raised the latter threateningly, and shoved the former roughly upon his nose.

A harsh whisper:

"Well — that's certainly _one_ way to wake up..."

Another brief moment of disorientation, and then Harry recognized the man standing just above him, and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was his godfather, Sirius Black.

"Sirius!" Harry whisper-yelled. "What on earth are you —"

"No time to explain now, Harry," said Sirius, rummaging in the pocket of his robe for a moment — he pulled something out and shoved it towards Harry. "Go on," he said. "Take it."

"What is _it?_" Harry asked, eyes still not quite adjusted to being awake — to him, the object in Sirius' hand could have been anything.

"It's a Portkey —"

"— to the Burrow?" Perhaps there had been nothing to worry about after all—?

But Sirius quickly shook his head — his shaggy hair, sopping wet, tossing water all all over the place as it flopped back and forth — and he said:

"To Hogwarts."

Harry blinked, and his breath sort of stuck in his throat — Hogwarts, in the middle of summer? What was going on?

(_The Burrow was on fire_, said a terrible voice in the back of Harry's mind.)

"But —"

"_Shh!_"

And the room fell perfectly silent as Sirius put a finger to his lips, and turned his head, his ear towards the door. They were both still for a moment, and then:

"Did you hear that?" he whispered.

"Hear what?"

"A _creak_," said Sirius, almost to himself, barely loud enough to be heard. He swallowed, almost louder than he spoke. "Someone on the stairs..."

Then: "_What are you still doing here?_ "

"But — but what's going on?"

Sirius merely shook his head once again, vigorous, decisive, and shoved the Portkey — the _whatever-it-was_ — into Harry's hand.

An eternity seemed to pass before anything happened — Harry heard a slow _squeak _from the door, the knob being carefully turned, and Sirius raised his wand — and finally, that unpleasant sort of _something_ pulled behind Harry's belly button, and the familiar words flashed through his head — _let's just take it together_...

And Harry's bedroom was gone in a swirl.

* * *

Harry found himself in Gryffindor Tower, spread face-up on the floor of the common room. It took him a moment to place himself, because despite having spent a great deal of his four years at Hogwarts in this room, he had never really looked at the ceiling before.

He lay motionless for a minute, trying to fully grasp that he was indeed back at Hogwarts a month early — that _this_, at least was not a dream.

Finally, he stood — and wondered if he was alone.

There was a fire in the fireplace, but the House Elves could have lit that — there was clearly no one else in the common room now, at least. But surely they wouldn't have sent him here to wait all by himself, would they?

...to wait for _what_, exactly, he didn't want to think about...

But of course, he _had _to think about it. There had to be some explanation for everything that was going on — some reason he was sent to Hogwarts rather the Burrow — some reason the Weasleys never came...

Maybe they were here as well, somewhere?

Harry practically ran up to his dormitory, leaping up two steps at a time, hoping against hope that he would find Ron inside, snoring away in his four-poster — but the dormitory was just as empty as the common room.

Harry went back down, slower, deflated — he had been almost certain that Ron would be there...

He decided that the only thing to do was to find Dumbledore — surely he would be able to explain what was going on.

He headed for the portrait hole, realizing just before he climbed through that he had neither his Invisibility Cloak nor the Marauder's Map with him — in fact, he didn't have anything at all. All of his belongings were still in his bedroom at Privet Drive — his trunk, his clothes, even his Firebolt, which he had bizarrely flown through Number Four just that afternoon... they were all still in his room, with Sirius.

Or rather — with Sirius, and whoever was about to come through the door...

Figuring that he couldn't exactly get in trouble before the school year even started, Harry climbed out of the portrait hole — startling the Fat Lady out of her sleep, and alarming her quite a bit, understandably.

"Why did you wake — what the bloody — what — what on earth are you doing here, boy?"

Harry ignored her and set off towards Dumbledore's office.

The halls felt, strangely, even more deserted than they usually did in the middle of the night — or maybe that was the feeling of the empty castle as a whole. Anyway, it was supremely strange to be without his cloak — he wondered if this was what it felt like for other students who snuck out, people who'd never seen an Invisibility Cloak in their lives — the Weasley twins surely hadn't let that stop them in their sneaking about...

The Weasleys.

(_The Burrow was on fire..._)

Harry quickened his pace and soon arrived at the gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Just as he began to worry that, of course, he would need to know the password, he gargoyle jumped to the side, the wall opened, and —

And there, emerging just at that very moment from the spiral staircase, was —

"Ron!" exclaimed Harry, and Ron — who had been looking rather dejectedly at his shoes — snapped his head up and gaped at Harry. He stopped in his tracks.

"Harry! When the bloody hell did you —?"

"Just now," said Harry.

"Don't mean to intrude on this lovely reunion," said a voice from behind Ron, which belonged to one of the twins, "but could you please move your fat arse out of the doorway? You try standing in place on a moving stair..."

Ron moved out of the way with a murmured apology, but he just sort of stared at Harry. Fred, George, and Ginny emerged from behind Ron.

"What is going on?" said Harry. "All I know is that Siri—is that Snuffles, he—"

"Best not talk about anything just yet," said George, glancing up and down the corridor.

"Let's get back to the common room, shall we?" said Fred.

"Yeah," said Ron, and they started walking back the way Harry had come — this time, it was perhaps even stranger, because not only was Harry not invisible, he was now in a group of five, and how often does one casually stroll down a corridor in a large group, in the middle of the night?

They walked in an unbearable sort of silence — Harry had a thousand questions he longed to just shout out at them all, but instead he just walked. Finally, after what felt like ages — surely it had not taken him quite so long the first time? — they reached the Fat Lady's portrait.

"A whole lot of you, eh? And what exactly do you all think you are doing here, and it's not even August yet? I —"

But before she could continue, Fred said the password, which Dumbledore must have given them, and she reluctantly swung her portrait open.

The twins climbed in first — then Ron — and then Ginny went to climb, but stopped a minute, which is when Harry noticed that her hands were full: she was holding a small wooden chest, with an intricate sort of pattern adorning its lid. Harry wondered on earth what it was, and why she had it — and how _he_ had managed not to notice it at all, the whole way from Dumbledore's office.

Ginny placed the box in the portrait hole ahead of her, then pulled herself up after it. Finally, Harry climbed in as well, and when he had, the Fat Lady swung the portrait closed behind him — a lazy, graceful arc — and got herself comfortable within her portrait.

Soon, she was snoring once again — perfectly peaceful, as though nothing had happened at all.


	4. Ginny's Gift

HARRY POTTER  
_and the  
_PEWTER OWL

an alternate fifth year  
by the mystery tramp

Chapter Four  
Ginny's Gift

The fire burnt bright in the common room, a circle of flickering lights around the bottom of Gryffindor Tower — among the only specks of light to be seen in all of the castle and its vast grounds.

It was not raining at Hogwarts, and so the world was quiet there — eerily quiet apart from the occasional noise from the Forbidden Forest, impossible to identify. The grounds were empty, just as the castle would have appeared to be — if not for those few lights, sporadically placed throughout the old castle, and that glowing Gryffindor Tower.

Inside the common room, Harry and the four Weasleys were gathered in the armchairs around the fire, which burnt cold for the summer heat.

Having already gone to sleep for the night, and it not yet being morning, Harry was sort of lost in an in-between — it wasn't quite tomorrow, but it was no longer yesterday, either — he wasn't quite fifteen, although his birthday's eve had come and gone.

The five of them were silent for awhile — perhaps the strange truth of being at Hogwarts in the middle of summer had just dawned on each of the Weasleys, now that they had had a chance to settle down, as it had dawned on Harry when he walked through the corridors alone.

"So," said Harry finally, "what is going on?"

"Well," said Fred, "nothing much, really."

Harry blinked.

"What do you mean, _nothing_ _much_?"

"Nothing much has happened," said George. Then, ominously, he added: "Yet."

The others nodded mysteriously, except for Ginny, who was staring at the fire with her arms tight around her knees. Her little wooden chest was on the floor beside her armchair, and Harry felt strangely curious about what it held.

Then, Harry followed her gaze into the fireplace, and —

(_The Burrow was on fire..._)

— was reminded of his dream, so he quickly turned his attention back to the others.

"Will you just get on with it?"

"Fine, fine," said George. "Whatever you like."

"Our dad woke us up," said Fred, "maybe a half hour ago, all urgent-like, and said there was no time to explain anything —"

"Mum woke up me and Ginny," added Ron, eager to get into the conversation as well, "and gathered us all round —"

"I think we were telling the story just fine, weren't we, Fred?"

"I reckon we were, George, until Ronnie here so _rudely _interrupted..."

"Quite right, how very rude of him to inter —"

"Will you all just _SHUT UP?_"

The boys fell silent, and looked at Ginny, wide-eyed, like they'd just been slapped.

"I don't see why you're all so keen on joking around about all of this," said Ginny, still not looking at them, still watching the fire. Finally, she turned around, sort of blushing, and addressed Harry directly:

"Our parents told us that the Burrow wasn't safe, and that we were going to Hogwarts," said Ginny, and her voice was raw — from lack of recent use, or from something else. "And they'd set up a special Floo connection direct to Dumbledore's office, just for a few minutes, and they said there was no time to explain. So we went — or rather, we came, since we're here now."

She paused for a few moments, as though she expected one of her brothers to take over, but none of them did, so she continued:

"And when we got here, Dumbledore, he said that there was reason to think that maybe You-Know-Who was planning an attack on the Burrow, or something, and that we'd be better off coming here for safe keeping." She paused again, and drew a rather harsh breath — then: "I don't see why Mum and Dad and Percy couldn't come with us —"

"Well, they've got to defend the Burrow, haven't they?" interjected Fred.

"_We _should've been allowed to stay, we're practically of age," said George. "What's the use of sitting around an empty castle when you could be helping protect your home from Death Eaters?"

"But aren't there like, protection spells and everything?" said Harry. "Around the Burrow? I mean, everyone knows you lot aren't exactly Voldemort's —" the rest of the group flinched. Harry continued resolutely: "— biggest fans, and — and you're close to me, certainly everybody already expected you'd sort of be a target?"

"Yeah, there are loads of wards and stuff," said Ron. And then, suddenly sounding sort of grave: "...but nothing compared to what _you've _got, of course, and you're here too, aren't you? So this must be something big..."

"— there are wards on Privet Drive?"

"'Course there are!" said Ron, shocked. "You think Dumbledore would leave you with Muggles without any protection? You think Voldemort would've waited a day before just tip-toeing up your garden path and killing you in your sleep?"

"...I hadn't really thought of it," Harry admitted. "But... but then you must be right, this has to be something big —"

"But nothing's happened yet," repeated Fred reassuringly. "They're just taking precautions."

"But when Siriu — I mean, when —"

"Don't worry, they know about Sirius," said Ron.

"Oh — well, when he came to get me from Privet Drive, there was somebody else there, just as I was about to leave, someone was about to open the door — it could've been a Death Eater, don't you think?"

"Well," said George, "it _could've _been — or it could've been your fat uncle coming to yell at you for making noises in the middle of the night..."

"Oh... I hadn't thought of that," said Harry again.

"I reckon," said Fred, "that there's no use worrying until we know there's reason to. For all we know this could all just be a false alarm." He looked worriedly at Ginny, who was once again absorbed in the fire. She looked terribly anxious. "I'm sure everything will be fine," he said, clearly speaking for her benefit.

"I'm not sure it will," said Ginny. She took a deep breath, and then added: "I just keep picturing it."

"Picturing what?" said Ron.

"The Burrow. Attacked, and everything," said Ginny. "I can't get it out of my head — our house, _our house_, with the Mark up in the sky above it —"

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

(_The Burrow was on fire..._)

"Don't _worry _so much, Ginny," said George. He stood, he patted her back once, halfway between comforting and lightly shoving, and yawned exaggeratedly. "_I_ for one am positively ecstatic to return to my beloved four-poster, and I reckon you should all do the same."

There was an air of finality about his words­ — but for some reason Harry didn't feel like obeying them. He didn't feel at all tired, despite his long, ridiculous day of working in the rain.

(And, of course, he was not overly eager to return to his dreams...)

Fred and Ron stood up as well, mimicking their brother's yawn, and the three of them started off towards the boys' stairs.

Ron hesitated: "You coming, Harry?"

"In a little while," said Harry, who felt not the least bit tired despite his ridiculous day of work.

"All right, suit yourself," said Ron. He started for the stairs again, paused again, and turned back:

"And don't stay up too late, Gin."

And he left, not waiting for a response — which never came, anyway.

Harry hadn't really realized that he wasn't the only one staying up, but yes, Ginny was still curled up in her armchair, watching the fire. When the room had been silent for a few minutes, she spoke, soft, almost too soft to be heard:

"Happy birthday, by the way."

Harry blinked — he had completely forgotten.

"Thanks," he said, somewhat awkwardly — this seemed like such an empty diversion from the more important things happening, such a silly thing to talk about, his _birthday_.

"My mum had a _spectacular_ party all planned for you," said Ginny, sounding sad, almost defeated. "A great big cake, and practically a feast, and everything... I suppose that's all gone out the window, now, though, hasn't it?"

"Well, that's all right," said Harry, feeling strange trying to comfort Ginny about _his _lost party. "I'm not really a birthday party sort of person, anyway..."

Ginny gave him a sharp look, eyes jolting away from the fireplace again, this time almost by accident.

"_Everybody's _a birthday party sort of person," she said, taken aback. "You simply must've never had a proper —" and she gasped (clearly realizing who she was speaking to) and fell silent after a murmured "sorry..."

"It's all right," said Harry once again. "It's nothing to apologize about..."

"Oh, but it was so _stupid_ of me," she said, shaking her head, pressing her hand into her forehead. She was blushing vibrantly, now.

"No, really, it was OK," said Harry. And he smiled, thinking it would put her at ease, but she wasn't even looking up. "To be honest, it was sort of nice, you were talking all... normal to me for a minute there —" And now it was Harry's turn to stumble over his words: "I mean, not that you're not usually normal, just that —"

And Ginny laughed, very softly, more of a chuckle. "I know, I know," she said. "I've always been a total idiot around you — don't worry, I've noticed as well."

"Not an idiot," said Harry quickly, "just... you know, a little —"

"Don't bother, I really _do_ already know. I was there as well."

"Yeah, I suppose so," said Harry.

And they were silent for a long while. Ginny sort of stared off into the darkness at the edge of the common room, chin balanced on her arms, arms folded atop her knees. Harry was lying on his chest, on a couch, folded arms propping up his face, gaze alternating between the fire and the chest on the floor.

Finally, Harry said:

"So... what's in the box?"

"What?" said Ginny, clearly startled out of a reverie.

Harry pointed. "The box, on the floor —"

"Oh! My glory box," she said, smiling very slightly. "I've had it my whole life, I couldn't just _leave_ it, at home, when home is... well, you know..."

"Yeah," said Harry. Then: "But what is it?"

"Oh, of course you wouldn't know, I don't know what I was... well. It's a box. And you're supposed to keep all sorts of things in it for when you... well, when you get married."

"Like what sorts of things?" said Harry.

Ginny blushed again. "Why are you so interested?"

Harry shrugged. "I've just never heard of it before, that's all," he said. "So it seems pretty interesting, to me at least..."

Another tiny smile, just a quick quirk of the lips, and she said: "Well. It was originally for things like dresses and blankets and tablecloths and things like that, but that got rather boring, so I've taken to putting in all sorts of things."

Harry furrowed his brow.

"All that in that tiny little box?"

And Ginny laughed. "It's not as tiny as it looks," she said. She hesitated for a moment — then, steeling herself, she said: "Go on. Open it."

"You sure?" said Harry, sitting upright on the couch. "I was just asking, I don't need to —"

"Go ahead," said Ginny.

"All right," said Harry, and he got off the couch, kneeling on the floor in front of the box — Ginny did the same, from her chair, and sat cross-legged next to him. Her face was as red as Harry had ever seen it, but there was something _enlivened_ about her, which was a breath of fresh air after the overwhelmed-with-worry look she'd been wearing all night.

Harry took hold of the lid, almost_ gingerly_, hands on either side, and — carefully, as though worried it would break — opened it.

Inside, where Harry had expected a small rectangle filled with linens, he found instead a veritable _room_ — it must have been ten feet deep, and so wide that Harry could not see the walls. It reminded him of the trunk that Barty Crouch Jr. had kept Mad-Eye Moody locked up in, the previous year, except this was decidedly more cheerful and — there was no other way of putting it — _girly_.

There were the clothes and the blankets that Ginny had described, often pink or yellow and lacy, but there was also a treasure trove of what seemed to be random, obscure items — creatures made from popsicle sticks, moving photographs, old magazines, stuffed animals, the golden figure of a lion, a pile of mismatched socks, and what seemed like a thousand old birthday and Christmas cards — and, surely, there must have been a million other things, just out of sight.

"Wow," he said, closing the lid, and feeling like he'd just seen something that wasn't meant for his eyes, like he'd invaded something intensely personal.

But Ginny didn't seem to mind. She was still blushing, but she was smiling fully now.

"It _is_ rather spectacular, isn't it?" she said, grinning.

Harry didn't really know what to say, so he just said: "Yeah."

She went on:

"After awhile I started putting in old birthday cards and everything, and then eventually I put in anything that had any sentimental value whatsoever. Some of the things, I don't even remember where I got them, but I was sentimental about them anyway, so I threw them in, it's..." — and her voice, which had begun excited, trailed off, limp —" ...all rather pathetic, really."

Harry shook his head.

"Not at all," he said, earnest.

And she quirked her head to the side, looking at him in a rather sad sort of way. Then, her eyes alighted on an idea.

"I'll be right back," she said, and in a moment, she had opened the box, stood, and stepped inside, and she was gone, before Harry could say another word. Part of him was afraid she would fall, because the floor of the box was so far away, but then, she clearly knew what she was doing.

He peered inside the box, hesitant, for fear she would emerge just as he was leaning over it and collide with him on the way out. He watched her as she rummaged around in one of the piles on the floor, clearly looking for something specific — he watched her, and thought, _This is really sort of pleasant._

He had never really talked to Ginny very much at all, least of all one-on-one, because she had always seemed to have a crush on him — now, he was honestly pretty glad that she was there, at Hogwarts, along with Ron and the twins. It would be nice to have someone else to talk to once in awhile, after all, alone in an empty castle for a month, just the five of them. He had never really thought of Ginny as someone to be spoken to — she'd always sort of just been someone who was there.

And then, very suddenly, she _was _there, popping out of the Glory Box as quickly as she'd gone into it.

"You're going to laugh," said Ginny, holding something behind her back with both hands, "but it's your birthday, and you've already lost out on Mum's magnificent cake — and, given the circumstances, I'd reckon a laugh isn't the worst thing in the world, embarrassing or no —"

"What is it?" asked Harry.

"I'm _getting _to it," said Ginny. She sort of screwed up her face — gritting her teeth and closing one eye — and shifted her wait from one foot to the other, as though warring with herself about whether this had been a good idea or not. "Now... just bear with me. I was a very young girl..."

"What is it?"

"Here," she said, pulling from behind her back a folded piece of green construction paper. She tossed it in his hands, practically leapt back onto her armchair and wrapped her arms tightly around a pillow.

"Don't hate me, all right?" she said, anxious.

Harry looked at the paper and saw that it was a birthday card — in big block letters, written in blue crayon:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!

And below the words, a lightning bolt, colored in yellow but somewhat greenish from the paper.

Harry opened the card — on the inside, it read, in very sloppy, very childish handwriting:

THANK YOU FOR EVERTHING!

LOVE,

GINNY

Harry grinned, and looked up at Ginny, who was practically cowering behind the pillow, now.

"'Thank you for everthing?'"

"I know, I know, I spelt _everything _wrong," said Ginny, her voice muffled from the pillow. "Forgive me, all right? I was six."

"I forgive you," said Harry, but then: "Wait, what _was_ everthing_?_"

"I _told _you, it was supposed to be _every —" _

"No, no, I mean, why were you thanking me?"

Ginny let the pillow fall limp in her arms, ,and stared at him for a good thirty seconds, mouth slightly open.

"You _do_ realize you sort of saved the world when you were a baby?" she said. "You have heard about _that_, yes?"

"Oh... right."

"Yes, _right_," said Ginny. She sighed: "I thought I was being so _cool_, you know, so _thoughtful_, thanking you... I thought, you know, _he lives with Muggles, I bet nobody's ever thanked him for defeating You-Know-Who, I'll be the first! And he'll think I'm the nicest girl in the whole world, and..._" She trailed off. "You get the point. I was so pathetic..."

"Well, maybe," said Harry, "but you were right. Nobody ever thanked me — I mean, not for the Voldemort thing — I mean — I'm pretty sure the Dursleys have never said 'thanks' to me once in fourteen years... other than, you know... 'something something something, _thank-you-very-much..._'"

"...that's terrible," said Ginny, after a moment.

"You get used to it," said Harry. He looked down at the card again, closed it, absent-mindedly ran a finger down the zig-zag of the lightning bolt. "Anyway... thank you."

"Ha," said Ginny.

"No, I mean it. You made this when you were six, you said?"

"Well, five and eleven months, but pretty much, yeah."

"So that makes this my first birthday card," said Harry.

And Ginny smiled. "I guess so," she said.

Then, she shook her head. "I can't believe I actually _gave_ that to you," she said. "I am in disbelief that I would —"

"Well, I'm glad you did," interjected Harry. Then: "I reckon we should probably get to bed?"

"Probably," said Ginny.

And so she closed the lid of the Glory Box, and picked it up. They doused the heatless fire, and parted ways at the staircase — Ginny headed up to the girls' dormitory with the box, a tiny bit emptier than it had been before — and Harry headed up to the boys' dormitory to dream of the Burrow in flames.


End file.
